


Bad Things

by dracoqueen22



Series: Number One Crush [6]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Fic Exchange, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 01:12:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2409632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are few things worse than waking up in a Decepticon brig. Except this is not a brig and these aren't any interrogators Sideswipe's ever met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fuzipenguin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/gifts).



> So. This was written as a fic exchange with fuzipenguin who gave me the idea/prompt. Because of the nature of the prompt I am Choosing Not To Warn For Content. Anyone who wishes to know what they are in for before reading can scroll to the bottom and read through the full list of warnings.
> 
> READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. I cannot stress that enough. I'm not going to be held responsible for someone having a bad reaction. This is also self-beta'd. So if you notice any egregious errors, I won't be offended if you point them out.

Sideswipe cycled online with a groan, trying to remember the designation of the Decepticon that had bowled him over. He felt like he was trudging through a swamp, trying to get back online, and he twitched.  
  
“What the frag...?” he groaned and onlined his optics.  
  
Darkness.  
  
Sideswipe rebooted his optics. Still darkness.  
  
He lifted a hand to his helm, or tried to, but couldn't move his arms. They were bound behind him, wrists shackled by a pair of sturdy cuffs that clinked when he moved them. He gave an experimental tug but they didn't budge.  
  
Not good.  
  
He was upright, sitting on his heels, but Sideswipe pushed up to his knees, wobbling as unstable gyros reeled. Dizziness attacked and Sideswipe's processor swam. He paused, cycled a ventilation, memory fuzzy.  
  
There was a battle. He remembered that much. The Decepticons had been particularly brutal this time around, coming out in full force, probably driven by a desperate need for energon.  
  
Sideswipe couldn't remember details. His short-term memory was sending him errors. He couldn't remember how the battle ended, only assuming that the Autobots had won.  
  
At some point, he must have fallen behind. Except if he had, Sunstreaker would have come for him and Ratchet would have followed, shouting obscenities. If they hadn't, then something must have happened to them. Because this wasn't the medbay and Ratchet wouldn't have disabled his optics or cuffed his wrists.  
  
Darkness. Cuffs. Silence.  
  
Scrap.  
  
“Well, well, well,” rasped an unfamiliar voice which was followed by the scrape of pedes across the floor. “Look who finally onlined.”  
  
“Took long enough,” muttered another voice, guttural and rough, but also unfamiliar. “But then, he's an Autobot. Should've guessed it.”  
  
Sideswipe's armor slicked down. Blindfolded and bound in the Decepticon brig. This was not how he wanted to start his week.  
  
He opted for silence. Best not to antagonize his tormentors, whomever they might be since he didn't recognize their voices. Starscream, he would have known. Vortex or Barricade or Soundwave, Sideswipe had experience with all of the usual interrogators. But apparently the Decepticons were trying new tactics. Or maybe they weren't interested in interrogation at all.  
  
Sideswipe had a fair understanding of how that went. Kaon was not exactly Mr. Rogers Neighborhood.  
  
One voice behind him, one in front. Somehow, Sideswipe didn't think this was about Autobot passcodes or battle tactics.  
  
Something prodded the base of his spinal column, pitching Sideswipe forward. “Hey,” grunted the mech behind him. “You online, Autoscum?”  
  
When Sideswipe didn't answer, the mech prodded harder, closer to a kick that sent a jarring stab of pain up Sideswipe's backstrut.  
  
“Yes,” he gritted out, fingers drawing into fists.  
  
“Good,” said the mech in front, his vocals an irritating pitch that didn't quite match Starscream's level but was a near thing. Sideswipe mentally dubbed him Screech. “Because you're no fun when you're not awake to enjoy this.”  
  
Sideswipe squared his jaw.  
  
“I'll say,” said the mech behind him, a laugh punctuating yet another jab to Sideswipe's backstrut.  
  
There was a hiss of hydraulics, as though the mech in front of Sideswipe had crouched down. There was a light tap to the side of his face, like from a hand.  
  
“See, it's like this, Autobot,” said Screech, condescension dripping from his words. “You play the game, you get to walk off the ship alive.”  
  
“Limp, more like,” cackled the mech behind him. He laughed a lot. Like one of those Earth felines that looked like canines. What were they? Oh yeah. Hyenas.  
  
“Alive is the key word here,” said Screech. “Sounds like a good deal, right?”  
  
“I'm not telling you a fragging thing,” Sideswipe snarled, jerking his helm away from the mech's hand.  
  
Both of them laughed to varying degrees of mockery.  
  
“We aren't interested in hearing ya talk,” said Hyena  
  
“Screaming though, that's an option,” said Screech.  
  
Interrogation was definitely off the table. Sideswipe tested his cuffs again, heard them rattle but not budge. They weren't stasis cuffs, thank Primus.  
  
“You can keep trying if you want,” Screech said, the creak of hydraulics and the whoosh of displaced air indicating he had risen to his pedes. “We like it when Autobots struggle.”  
  
“In fact.” Hyena cackled. “We prefer it.”  
  
“So you can do us a favor and struggle. We'll still get what we want, but you cooperate, and you might get what you want.” A hand rested on Sideswipe's helm, condescending in its weight. “Understand?”  
  
Sideswipe jerked his helm away. “Don't you have better things to do than taunt a prisoner?”  
  
“Today? Nope. We cleared our schedules just for you.” Sideswipe couldn't see Screech, but heard the grin the mech's voice well enough.  
  
A hand planted itself on his back, at the apex of his spinal column, fingers tip-tapping a rhythm against his armor. “We thought about callin' it payback, but we couldn't find a good enough reason. Then we realized we don't need an excuse. Because the boss don’t give a frag.”  
  
Sideswipe, in that moment, understood. His engine revved before he throttled it back, conserving his energy. He couldn't waste it. He had to bide his time because if he was missing, the Autobots would notice.  
  
Sunstreaker would tear the world apart and the Pit hath no fury like a Ratchet enraged.  
  
Rescue would come.  
  
He only had to survive, cling to his sanity, until then.  
  
He could fight. He could struggle. He could kick blindly, throw his weight around, and what would that give him? Dents. Scrapes. More damage. They'd take their anger out on him and then still use him. Only then, he'd be too beaten to protest at all.  
  
Sideswipe had been there before, too.  
  
The humiliation burned. Back here again, where he'd vowed to never return. Slag them all.  
  
“We understand each other then. Yes?” Screech presumed and there was a click, the slick sound of a spike emerging from its sheath, pressurized and ready. The scent of hot metal and pre-transfluid floated to Sideswipe's olfactory sensor. “Make it good and I might even make sure you get back to the Autobots in one piece.”  
  
Behind him, Hyena chortled, much less sane than his partner. Tapping fingers became scraping fingers, dragging scores into his armor and removing strips of paint.  
  
Sunstreaker was going to kill them. He'd spent hours on that layer of paint just a couple of days ago.  
  
A hand gripped Sideswipe's chin, tilting his face upward, and there was a scrape as the mech in front of him moved closer. His sensors went haywire, registering the proximity of Enemy.  
  
“Open,” Screech ordered, fingers pressing in on his jaw hinge. “And if I feel even a scrape of denta, I'll rip your spike off and shove it down your throat. Got me?”  
  
Sideswipe wished he could glare. He growled low in his vocalizer, but jerked his helm in a nod.  
  
“Good,” Screech purred, stroking his jaw in a gross parody of affection. “I always thought you were a smart mech.”  
  
Sideswipe heard the mech shift his weight, the scuff of a pede against the ground, and his olfactory sensor twitched as the scent of a primed spike got closer. A hand settled on top of his helm, a firm reminder, and the tip of a spike brushed his lips.  
  
“Kiss it,” Screech demanded.  
  
If Sideswipe didn't obey Prowl, what did this Decepticon think he was going to do now? Submit without a fight? He pressed his lips together.  
  
Hyena laughed. “He don't seem interested in what you have to offer.”  
  
“I'll make him interested,” Screech growled and fingers gripped one of Sideswipe's sensory horns, squeezing hard enough to send error messages shrieking through his HUD. “I got a feeling these are important.” The spike pressed more insistently at the seam of his lipplates, smearing pre-fluid over his facial plating.  
  
Sharp pain abruptly radiated through his backstrut, sending warnings streaking across his HUD. Sideswipe arched forward, a startled cry escaping him moments before the spike shoved into his mouth, thick and hot. He gagged and spasmed, scenting the spill of energon, still arched away from the mech behind him.  
  
Claws, he realized. The slagger behind him had sunk his claws in a transformation seam. The mech laughed and withdrew his claws. It hurt, but it wouldn't kill Sideswipe. Even now, his repair nanites were rushing to fill in the punctures.  
  
“You're too impatient,” Screech grumbled, his hand gripping Sideswipe's helm, keeping him in place as he pushed deeper into Sideswipe's mouth.  
  
His tanks roiled, glossa pressed down, intakes flexing as though preparing him to purge. And Sideswipe liked to give oral. He loved to pin down his mates and suck them dry. When he wanted to.  
  
“We don't got all day.” Claws dragged down Sideswipe's back, catching on plating seams with quiet snicks.  
  
The spike slid further into his mouth, bumping the back of his intake and thank Primus they weren't organic. Sideswipe didn't gag. But his throat tubing flexed, irritated by the presence of something that wasn't energon.  
  
“We got as long as we want,” Screech said with a moan, his hand still firmly on Sideswipe's helm. His hips pushed in and out, gliding over Sideswipe's glossa, seemingly content with the slow pace. “Come on, Autobot. Make it good and we won't hurt you.”  
  
_Cooperate_. Ratchet's voice whispered at the back of his processor.  
  
_Frag that! Don't make it easy!_ Sunstreaker snarled.  
  
_The less I have to repair the better_ , Ratchet insisted. _Don't make it harder on yourself. I'd rather have you alive.  
  
Decepticons lie_ , Sunstreaker argued.  
  
Ratchet sighed.  
  
That argument seemed far removed from the reality of it now.  
  
The hand on his back shifted to his aft, groping him shamelessly. “Gotta nice aft,” Hyena mused aloud, and his hand pushed lower, palming Sideswipe's panel.  
  
He swallowed unconsciously, glossa flicking up and at the spike in his mouth. The mech above him shuddered, a low purr escaping from his engine.  
  
“Open up,” came the order from behind.  
  
Sideswipe ignored it. The fingers pressed harder at his panel, tracing the edges and testing the give of the softer metal.  
  
The mech in front of him laughed, a grating noise. “Just tear it off.”  
  
The pressure increased, a sharper rub that edged this side of pain, and Sideswipe grimaced.  
  
“Nah,” the mech behind him said and then the pressure eased. His fingers flicked around Sideswipe's panel before teasing into the gaps of his plating. “I know a few tricks.” There was a weird pulling sensation and then, with a click, Sideswipe's panel popped open on it's own accord. “Yup. Still got it.”  
  
Screech snorted and thrust harder into Sideswipe's mouth, smacking the back of his intake and making his vents seize in reflex. “What's the fun in that?”  
  
“Shuddup. You got your kinks, I got mine.” Hyena's claw-tipped fingers rubbed over Sideswipe's open array, tracing the rim of his valve and briefly tapping the tip of his recessed spike.  
  
“Whatever.” The mech above him grunted, thrusts increasing in earnest, spike leaking pre-transfluid into Sideswipe's mouth. It coated his glossa, slithered down his intake. “Gonna make you swallow it all, Autobot.”  
  
Sideswipe grimaced, his jaw hinge aching. The grip on his helm was relentless, keeping him in place, and there was nowhere to go, trapped between them.  
  
Fingers pushed into his valve, two of them, rubbing incessantly over the sensor-rich lining, just soft enough to produce pleasure rather than pain despite the scrape of talons on his inner lining. Heat suffused his array, a slow curl of pleasure that made his hips jerk. He lurched forward, swallowing around the spike in his mouth and the mech above him groaned, spike throbbing with impending overload.  
  
The mech behind him chuckled. “Do it on his face.”  
  
Sideswipe was glad that he didn't have to watch this.  
  
“I might just.” There was another grunt, a huff of ventilation, a frantic whirr of cooling fans. Heat chuffed against Sideswipe's face.  
  
One hand slid down from Sideswipe's helm, cupping just beneath his jaw, tilting his helm upward for the perfect angle. It was uncomfortable and awkward and of course, they didn't care. The mech pushed into his mouth with single-minded pursuit of an overload, the discomfort a near-distraction to the fingers pushing into his valve, smearing around the thin dribbles of automatic lubrication.  
  
Sideswipe couldn't decide which was the better distraction. Not that it mattered because Screech overloaded mere seconds later, hand shoving Sideswipe onto his spike as a jet of transfluid seared down his intake. Screech groaned, pelvic plating pressed to Sideswipe's face, grip unrelenting. Sideswipe had no choice but to swallow.  
  
“Primus,” Screech groaned and jerked back, releasing Sideswipe's helm in enough time for a final spurt to land on his faceplate. It slid down his cheek, leaving a wet trail behind. Vents roared in an attempt to cool an overheated frame.  
  
Sideswipe clamped his mouth shut, letting his helm slump. The taste of transfluid was thick on his tongue and worse, he couldn't wipe it off his face.  
  
Fingers stabbed into his valve, rubbing sharply over a deeply hidden node and Sideswipe startled, a small shout escaping him.  
  
“We did say we like 'em noisy,” Screech said, vocals a bit staticky.  
  
“Like music to my audials,” the other mech purred and his hand planted itself on Sideswipe's back, shoving him.  
  
He toppled forward, unable to catch himself without use of his hands, and turned his helm just in time to prevent himself from smashing his olfactory sensor. Still, that his shoulders struck the ground was jarring and it left him terribly exposed, his open array bared and on display. He tried to shifts his knees together but couldn't find the leverage.  
  
“Ah, much better.” Fingers plunged back into his valve, in and out.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“I like it when they get off.” Hyena grunted, fingers twisting and rubbing inside Sideswipe's valve, exciting sensors that had been anticipating pain and were unprepared for pleasure.  
  
“Waste of time.”  
  
“Says you.”  
  
Sideswipe shuddered. It was impossible to focus on anything but the wet sound of the fingers in his valve and the scent of lubricant and overload thick in the air. Especially since the bit smeared on his face was now also smeared on the floor and he kept rubbing against it. His shoulders ached, his fingers twitched.  
  
“But look at him,” Hyena said, other hand palming Sideswipe's aft. “He hates it but he's wet and dripping all over my fingers. Cause his frame knows better about what he wants. Doncha?”  
  
“Frag you,” Sideswipe gritted out, drawing his fingers into fists.  
  
They laughed.  
  
“Now, now. That's not friendly at all.” There was a creak, a shift of hydraulics, as the mech in front of him crouched at Sideswipe's helm. “And we've been so nice to ya and everything.” His hand patted Sideswipe's cheek.  
  
Sideswipe lunged, denta snapping at the mech's fingers and closing on air. The mech was too quick, perhaps even prepared for it. And Sideswipe paid for that risk when the palm hit the side of his helm, shoving it back to the ground.  
  
“He almost got you.” Hyena chortled.  
  
“Not even close.” There wasn't any anger in the fragger's voice. “And just when I thought we'd broken him. He's hardly resisted at all.”  
  
“Maybe it's cause he values this.” A finger flicked against the tip of Sideswipe's thankfully recessed spike.  
  
“Slag you both to the Pit!” Sideswipe hissed, and clamped down on a moan as the fingers in his valve pumped slowly, all the better to stimulate. The touch to his spike increased as well, slowly circling the tip as though encouraging it to emerge.  
  
“Such a mouth on you,” Screech said, making a strange clucking noise. “I'm not sure I want to risk those denta again.” There was a creak, as though he'd shifted weight.  
  
“Thought you wanted to hear him scream?”  
  
“It doesn't have to be words.” A hand planted itself on the side of Sideswipe's face again, pinning his helm to the floor.  
  
Something nudged against his lipplates. “Open.”  
  
Frag that.  
  
There was a raspy laugh. “That's what you get for asking nicely.”  
  
“Won't make that mistake again.” The nudging became an insistent pressure, one that bordered on pain. The delicate metals of his lips ached. The hand on his helm shifted until a thumb pressed against Sideswipe's cheekplate, adding pressure to the thin plate which threatened to buckle.  
  
“Open.”  
  
The implied threat promised pain. Sideswipe could handle pain. He wasn't a warrior build for nothing. Like frag he was going to be a willing participant in anything.  
  
One mech snorted a laugh. “Effective,” came the sarcastic commentary.  
  
“Shut up.” The grip on his jaw tightened. “I said open, frag it!”  
  
Pain lanced through Sideswipe's face. His jaw ached, his lips buckled, his cheekplating distorted inward.  
  
_Cooperate_ , he remembered Ratchet urging.  
  
Sideswipe snarled and that was all the invitation his tormentor needed. Something pushed past his lips, spherical and cold, tasting of iron and leather. Straps then wound around his helm and were locked at the back.  
  
“Nice. Gag looks good on him.”  
  
“Thought it would.” Fingers flicked over the metal sphere, the vibrations traveling unpleasantly against his denta.  
  
He couldn't choke, not like a human, but that didn't mean the gag was any less uncomfortable. His glossa pushed at it to no avail and it was just wide enough that his jaw ached.  
  
“Are you done? Because it's my turn now.”  
  
“He's all yours.”  
  
The hand abandoned his spike and Sideswipe had no time to brace himself as his bound wrists were grabbed and he was hauled backward. His shoulders strained as he was yanked back to his knees and then further, until his aft settled on a lap, his legs spread wide over someone's knees. A spike nudged the rim of his valve before popping inside with a low moan from the mech behind him.  
  
“Finally,” he breathed, a full-frame shudder rattling him and shaking Sideswipe by proxy. “Feels like he's been a tease this whole time.”  
  
All Sideswipe could manage was a muffled curse, but he strained against his binds nonetheless.  
  
The other mech laughed. “You're the one who wanted to take your time.”  
  
Hands landed on Sideswipe's shoulders as his sensors registered the approach of the other mech. Heat washed against his front and then metal scraped against the outside edges of his legs.  
  
“The frag?”  
  
“Can't let something like this go to waste.” Soft wetness stroked up Sideswipe's spike, lubricant dribbling over it.  
  
Was he really...?  
  
“I can't believe you're going to do that,” the other mech said, but he kept still, his spike an unwelcome presence in Sideswipe's twitching valve.  
  
“What? I like spike.”  
  
“Glitch.”  
  
“Oh, shuddup.” The valve stroked Sideswipe's spike again before the mech sank down, burying Sideswipe to the hilt. “And move. We don't got all day.”  
  
Sideswipe groaned, his vents snapping open as he dumped heat from his frame. His calipers cycled down even as his spike throbbed. The fragging mech's valve was tight and wet and impossible to resist.  
  
“Whatever you say, lover.”  
  
Hands gripped Sideswipe's hips and then Hyena thrust upward, spike raking the sensors in his valve. At the same time, Screech ground down on his valve. They worked together in surprising tandem, filling Sideswipe and leaving him empty in complementary rhythms. Their heat surrounded him.  
  
Pleasure rippled through Sideswipe. A moan escaped him. This was familiar to him. This didn't hurt and Sideswipe was used to this. To being pressed between two frames, taken and taking. He was used to the push-pull, the advance and retreat, the desperate climb toward overload.  
  
How many times had Ratch and Sunny pressed him between them? How often had he thrown his helm back, offlined his optics, and surrendered to the bliss they offered him. If it weren't for his hands bound behind him, fingers scraping the chassis of the unknown mech, Sideswipe could almost believe he was home. Their ventilations surrounded him, as did the sound and sensation of their engines, throttling higher as their arousal climbed.  
  
Hyena ex-vented noisily, already close to the edge. He hadn't gotten his overload after all.  
  
But it was the mech riding Sideswipe who remained the most vocal.  
  
“Frag,” he moaned, taking his pleasure without heed to the two bearing his weight. “I want to keep him.”  
  
The other chuckled, fingers gripping tighter, slipping into seams to scrape at the cables and wires beneath. “Don't think his brother will like that.”  
  
“Then we'll get him, too.”  
  
Anger struck fast and hard. Sideswipe thrashed between them, furious for Sunstreaker's sake far more than his own. He would cooperate for the sake of his own plating. He would fight to the death to protect Sunstreaker's. A growl wrenched itself from his vocalizer, an unintelligible threat.  
  
The mech below heaved upward, slamming into Sideswipe's valve in an increased pace that was angled just right to strike several deeper sensors. “Don't,” he gasped, “think he approves of that.”  
  
“Isn't his choice to make, now is it?” Screech's tone was nasty and amused, a laugh bubbling from above Sideswipe.  
  
Screech circled his hips, Sideswipe's spike squeezed by his valve, and not caring whose valve it was. An overload was an overload, to the sensors in his spike, despite all of Sideswipe's attempts to dismiss the pleasure.  
  
He shuddered, not that it bothered either of his tormentors.  
  
Screech loosed a low moan, just this side of audial-irritating. His pelvis slammed down against Sideswipe's, valve clutching Sideswipe's spike with no thought for anything but his own overload.  
  
Meanwhile, the hands on Sideswipe's hips tightened their grip. His plating protested, warnings cascading through his awareness about impending damage. As if Sideswipe could do anything about it. He gritted his denta, clenched his fingers into fists, and entertained notions of taking his revenge.  
  
“Definitely keeping him,” Screech moaned, riding Sideswipe in earnest now, his hands firmly gripping Sideswipe's shoulders. “Keep him tied to my berth for whenever I need a good frag.”  
  
“Which is often.”  
  
“Shut the frag up.”  
  
“Only if you promise to share.”  
  
The crash of metal on metal was almost cacophonous, droning out the noises of their byplay, their sniping at each other which never distracted either from using Sideswipe however they saw fit.  
  
And now, energy warnings started to crop up. He was low, not dangerously so, but enough that the warnings were irritating. Enough that he knew he needed to refuel. Maybe that explained the exhaustion.  
  
Weight shifted. Sideswipe awkwardly tried to keep his balance, but he hadn't needed to, not with the grips on his hips and shoulders. The mech in front of him leaned closer, their chestplates bumping, his heat washing over Sideswipe's frame.  
  
“I can share,” Screech murmured. “I'm good at sharing.”  
  
There was a low huff of ventilation. “I noticed.”  
  
They kissed. Sideswipe could hear the wet sounds of their glossas tangling, their lips smacking together, and the low moans from both mechs. Their movements increased in earnest, until one broke away with a gasp, his mouth landing between Sideswipe's neck and shoulder, denta biting down hard enough to leave dents behind.  
  
The sharp stab of pain was lost to the other sensations, the pleasure and the wetness and the hot clasp of an eager valve combined with the blunt force of a desperate spike. But it was Screech above him who overloaded first, his hips slamming down with enough force to scrape metal on metal before he shouted. His valve clamped down, rippling around Sideswipe's spike, and his fingers dug between armor plates, putting pressure on cables just visible in the seams.  
  
He panted, heat washing over Sideswipe, forcing his vents to work triple-time to cool down his frame. Not that there was any cooler air to be found. Screech slumped against Sideswipe, vibrations wracking his frame.  
  
“Good?”  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
“My turn then.”  
  
Fingers gripped, pressing harder, buckling metal this time, sending a slew of notices through Sideswipe's processor. Ratchet was going to pitch a fit, he thought. And though it should have been impossible given the weight and the angle, the mech started pounding into his valve, hydraulics straining for each rough thrust.  
  
Sideswipe jolted, valve clutching uselessly at the quick pistoning of the spike. His whole frame shook, his valve protested. There was a growl, a muttered something lost to another grip of denta on Sideswipe's shoulders.  
  
Hyena stiffened and transfluid flooded Sideswipe's valve, searing hot as it washed across primed sensors. He shouted, bucking upward, and the precious balance tumbled.  
  
They tipped to the side, the mech on top scrambling to get free of a tangle of limbs, his valve popping off Sideswipe's spike with a wet squelch.  
  
“Fragger!”  
  
“I'm not even sorry.” Satisfaction wafted from the mech's field even as he shoved Sideswipe off of him, the withdrawal too sudden to be comfortable.  
  
Sideswipe gasped, landing hard on his front, face smushed against the floor. His entire frame thrummed with pent-up energy, even as he felt fluids leaking from his valve and staining his spike. He itched. He was hot. His frame screamed for release and he couldn't throttle that need down.  
  
“Aw. He didn't overload.”  
  
“Who the frag cares?”  
  
“We ought to be hospitable, don't you think?”  
  
Hands on his frame again, and Sideswipe should be used to that. But he tried to roll over on his side, tried to kick out with his pedes, but both actions proved futile.  
  
Knees pinned him down by his shoulders, trapping his bound hands beneath him. He could feel the heavy weight of the mech above him, smell the hot metal stink of spent transfluid, and hear the drip of lubricant. It splashed on his face, his lips, and dribbled on his cheek to join the sticky remains of transfluid.  
  
“I'm not sticking my spike back in that.”  
  
A frame nudged between Sideswipe's thighs, splaying his legs wide, cold air washing over his exposed components. His spike, still pressurized and leaking. His valve, wet and open and desperate for contact.  
  
“Guess you'll have to get creative then.”  
  
A dark laugh filled Sideswipe's audials. “I've got just the thing.”  
  
There was a click, another black chuckle that held nothing but foreboding. The weight on his shoulders bore down. He heard something creak, felt the strain in his joints, and a low moan escaped Sideswipe before he could stop it. His hands were squeezed between concrete, the weight of his frame, and weight of another frame atop him. He could feel the metal buckling, pressure sensors hollering warnings and pain, pain, pain.  
  
Something nudged at his valve, cold and hard, sliding against the mix of lubricant and transfluid, teasing the rim.  
  
“Good pieces of shareware can get off on anything.”  
  
The cold object teased the mouth of his valve before sliding inside, unyielding and frigid as it slid against every sensor. It felt both alien and good, a relief to the clenching need of his valve, but nothing he'd ever experienced before. Even Ratchet's toys were always warm.  
  
“You are one nasty mech.”  
  
“I try.”  
  
The object slid deeper, further than a spike could reach at this angle, and nudged a ceiling node. Sideswipe grunted, hips arching of their own accord, a spasm wreaking his array. The heat in his pelvis raged toward an inferno, charge dancing through his lines. His poor spike pulsed, straining for attention, leaking copiously.  
  
“Won't be long now.”  
  
“Could always provide some incentive.”  
  
“What? My gun ain't enough?”  
  
Sideswipe twitched, realization hitting him as the sensors in his valve screamed pleasure.  
  
“Careful now. I hear that death by interfacing is not always the way to go.” The purr was dark and aroused, as was the field that hit Sideswipe.  
  
He didn't know who was saying what anymore. Or who was doing what. It didn't matter. Someone was shoving their fragging gun in his valve. Someone else was kneeling on his shoulders, bearing down.  
  
And now someone was ex-venting over his spike, little bursts of wet heat that yanked a moan from his intake and arched his hips, spike desperate to get closer. There was a laugh, a shove of that slagging gun, and then, oh Primus. A mouth. Someone had put their mouth on his spike and a glossa lashed across the eager tip of it.  
  
A sound, no words, scraped out of Sideswipe and he all but thrashed beneath them.  
  
“I can't believe you did that.”  
  
A muffled noise and Sideswipe's spike slid deeper into that wet heat of perfect suction.  
  
It would have been easier to resist, Sideswipe lamented, if they hadn't been making it a point to arouse him all along. But the pleasure was there, on the edge of humiliation, and Sideswipe was helpless to it. Helpless to the demands of his own frame.  
  
He tried to keep still, mindful of the weapon, but it was impossible. And if that was a whimper that escaped him, Sideswipe vowed not to remember it. It burned at him, that they could manipulate him so, but even that was gone in the wake of driving pleasure.  
  
He arched. He writhed. He clamped down and thrust upward. He struggled to ventilate, dismissed warnings on the state of his frame, and fought his overload with a determination he usually reserved for knocking 'Con jets out of the sky.  
  
It was a futile effort.  
  
Overload struck him like a full-on blow from a high-powered blaster. Sideswipe jerked, thrashing, as charge rushed through his lines and he was treated to the rare pleasure of a dual overload. His valve spasmed before he clamped down hard on the gun barrel. His spike jerked, spilling spurt after spurt of transfluid down the mech's throat.  
  
There was a sputter, the sound of someone complaining, but it was distant to the pleasure. Distant to the noise rushing through his audials, the tremulous shake of his frame, and the overriding, lingering refrains of his overload. Fatigue hit hard in the wake, fatigue that left him trembling, desperate to cling to consciousness but again, it was another futile effort.  
  
The last thing he felt was the barrel being pulled from his valve, dripping his own lubricant over his pelvic array. And then Sideswipe fell into darkness.  
  


0o0o0

  
  
Sideswipe onlined, his processor muzzy and his vision blurry. He rebooted his optics, a groan escaping before he could stop it. Something nudged his lips, and for a moment, he flinched away from it.  
  
“It's energon,” a voice urged, a voice he recognized, and then, there it was, the familiar field of his partner and the spark-pulse of his twin.  
  
His lips parted as the cube nudged them again and relief swept through Sideswipe as he took in the much-needed energy. Minor alerts on the edge of his awareness faded to nothing.  
  
His vision clarified. Sense returned. He felt the warmth of a frame cradling him from behind, and the steady thrum-purr of an engine that matched his own. Sunstreaker nuzzled his helm, little kisses almost ticklish at the top of his spinal strut.  
  
“You with us?” Ratchet asked, taking away the cube after Sideswipe drained it. He felt the distinctive prickle of a deep scan. Ratchet's so paranoid, always convinced they were going to hurt themselves.  
  
“Yeah,” Sideswipe said and couldn't help pushing a bit backward, into Sunstreaker's embrace.  
  
“Hmm.” Ratchet lowered himself down until his helm was even with Sideswipe's. “You sure?”  
  
Sideswipe offered a crooked grin. “I could use about a week's worth more of recharge but I'm all good. Seriously.” Especially since Sunstreaker was softly stroking his hip and side and it was not arousing him, which was the point.  
  
Ratchet's optics cycled down, a clear hint he wasn't convinced, and Sideswipe detected the low buzz of a narrow-band comm between his twin and their mate. That they didn't believe him wasn't surprising. Sideswipe's always been one to push the limits and perhaps they think he'd gone too far this time.  
  
He was too tired to decrypt their conversation so he half-shuttered his optics and allowed himself to be lulled by Sunstreaker's stroking and the heaviness of fatigue in his lines.  
  
Ratchet muttered something and pushed himself back up, turning away from the berth. His field left a caress of affection behind. Exasperated, but affection nonetheless.  
  
“So,” Sunstreaker said. “How was it?”  
  
Sideswipe nibbles on his bottom lip.  
  
Intense.  
  
Terrifying.  
  
Exhilarating.  
  
Hot as the Pit.  
  
“Convincing,” he finally answered because he could, without thinking about it, pinpoint the exact moment where he almost forgot it was just a game. Even knowing that they had planned for it, though they had purposefully never set a date. Even hearing the key words in the initial dialogue that reassured him it was his mates pretending and that he wasn't truly in the hands of the Decepticons.  
  
Even then...  
  
Yeah. Convincing.  
  
There was a beat of silence.  
  
“We went too far,” Sunstreaker said, at length. Apology was unspoken in the kiss he pressed to the back of Sideswipe's helm.  
  
“No. I just...” He paused, frustrated, unable to put into words the cacophony of emotions spiraling through his processor. “It was good,” he settled for, a tad lamely.  
  
Because there had been pleasure, processor-blowing pleasure, amidst it all. Dancing the line of terror and consent, knowing it was just a game and that he could put a stop at any moment but also feeling as though he were helpless to it.  
  
It was one of the most intense experiences he had ever had and Sideswipe wasn't sure what that said about the state of his own processor.  
  
“It _was_ good,” Sideswipe repeated, this time with emphasis. “But I don't think I'll be asking for it again anytime soon.” This was one kink he thought would be better in small doses. And not just for his sake.  
  
“At least you have some sense,” Ratchet grumbled as he wandered back into sight, carrying more energon and a decanter of coolant. His field wisped against Sideswipe's and he got the vaguest sense of guilt from the medic. “Drink.” He held the coolant to Sideswipe's lips.  
  
He drank, the cool fluid a mercy to his intake, which still felt bruised despite the self-repair nanites swarming to it.  
  
“Thanks,” Sideswipe said, vocalizer raspy. The curiosity burned at him. “Who...?”  
  
It was hard to put into words. The illusion made it impossible to tell them apart. They'd modded their vocalizers, concealed their spark energies, and changed anything Sideswipe could recognize, all to further the fantasy. And they'd done it because he'd asked them to, no matter how uncomfortable they might have been at first. Ratchet, in particular, had balked at any suggestion of hurting Sideswipe, no matter how consensually. Sunstreaker had only given him a shrewd look before agreeing. In the end, they'd both consented.  
  
Primus but he loved his mates.  
  
“Does it matter?” Sunstreaker grunted. His hand petted Sideswipe's hip, lingering over the taloned scrapes in his paint.  
  
Claws. It had to have been Sunstreaker behind him. Which made Sideswipe goggle even more because he never would have thought Ratchet to have it in him. Either he'd done some serious research or he'd had Sunstreaker coaching him the whole time.  
  
“Maybe I like to give credit where it's due,” Sideswipe retorted, aiming for a cheeky grin, sure to reassure both of them that he truly was fine.  
  
Ratchet snorted and another scan danced over Sideswipe's frame. He frowned, as though dissatisfied with the results though Sideswipe knew Ratchet wouldn't have left anything unrepaired. Besides, he hadn't been damaged all that much. It had all been superficial, more discomforting than damaging.  
  
“You didn't hurt me,” Sideswipe said and he lifted a hand, reaching for Ratchet in an attempt to drag the medic closer.  
  
“That's because I fixed it all before I let you online, you glitch,” Ratchet said, lingering just out of reach.  
  
“And you didn't hurt him before that either,” Sunstreaker said, perhaps understanding more of what made Ratchet so suddenly skittish.  
  
“Come here,” Sideswipe asked, gesturing with his hand. He was too tired to attempt getting up and right now, he didn't care about energon or coolant so much as he cared about snuggling Ratchet.  
  
Yes, he said snuggling.  
  
Ratchet hesitated.  
  
“Get the frag over here,” Sunstreaker said, a low rumble in his engine giving hint to his irritation.  
  
There was challenge in Sunstreaker's demand as well and Ratchet, never one to back down, squared his shoulders and approached the berth. Sideswipe snagged his arm in the fraction of a klik where Ratchet seemed to debate with himself, and pulled the medic onto the berth. It was an attempt that would have never succeeded if Ratchet hadn't finally given in. It was often a point of amusement that Ratchet outweighed his warrior lovers.  
  
Ratchet's field remained tightly furled, though he pressed his frame to Sideswipe, still running those blasted scans as though the last half-dozen had been wrong. And they called Red Alert paranoid.  
  
It was actually kind of cute and Sideswipe found himself grinning, trying to tug Ratchet closer, until he could feel the thrum of Ratchet's frame against his own. “Hi,” he said.  
  
Ratchet cycled his optics and gave him the strangest look. “Hi,” he repeated in a flat tone. “That's all you have to say?”  
  
Sideswipe shrugged. “Could say more but honestly, I'd rather you just kissed me and then we all recharged together.”  
  
Sunstreaker's field pulsed agreement, his presence at Sideswipe's back both comforting and familiar. Sunstreaker had already read the truth in Sideswipe's spark. It was Ratchet who needed further coaxing.  
  
Ratchet muttered something subvocally, but the lines of tension eased. His expression softened and he leaned in for a kiss, their lips brushing together. Sideswipe purred, snagging an arm around Ratchet and pressing their forehelms together.  
  
“Thanks,” Sideswipe said.  
  
And Ratchet, softspark to the core though his gruff nature might speak otherwise, shuttered his optics as his field leaned into Sideswipe's, opened at last. “Anything for you,” he admitted in a voice no one overhearing could detect.  
  
Sunstreaker made a noise, a growl of his engine, and Ratchet rumbled in reply. “You, too, you vain slagger.”  
  
Sideswipe chuckled and the last of the tension dissipated as though it never been present at all. He snuggled closer to Ratchet and felt for Sunstreaker through his spark, and was lulled into recharge by the safety of being pressed between his mates.  
  
Really, there was no other place he'd rather be.  
  


****

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings/Enticements: restraints, gagging, rapeplay, sticky, oral, forced overload, gunplay, humiliation, threesome, twincest
> 
> The prompt, basically was: Going dark here for this one... (gang)rape fantasy with or without gun play. Any continuity, anyone being the one 'raped' with the other two enforcing the 'rape'. Cuddles and snuggles at the end a bonus. It also snags a prompt from the same WOI post, the song “Bad Things” by Jace Everett. [#47]


End file.
